The Hunter
by poor-student
Summary: Lord Voldemort is dead. So is Albus Dumbledore. Many supporters of the Dark Lord are still unaccounted for and are at large in a world that just wants to forget. Eighteen year old Harry Potter will NEVER forget.


**Chapter 1**

**The Hunter**

Beep beep beep! Beep beep beep!

I disentangled myself gently from Daphne's arms and turned off the alarm clock on the bedside table. A quick check of the red letters on the clock face told me it was nearly one in the morning.

I shifted my body and took up a sitting position on the edge of the bed. I waited for the haze to leave my mind and enjoyed a few last moments of the warmth my bed provided. I could hear the sounds of steady breathing behind me and I felt a great longing to simply turn around and pull the sheets back up to my chin and grab the sleeping bundle in my bed and pull it close to me.

With a dissatisfied sigh I took to my feet and pulled my wand off the bedside table. With a wave of my wand the many candles scattered about the surfaces of my room spilled a dim glow onto the walls and surface tops.

I quietly pulled open the top drawer of my dresser and withdrew a folded pair of black pants with many cargo pockets. I sleepily unfolded them, noting with my fingers the two raised patches of dragon skin stitched onto the fabric, with another layer of simple black cotton to hide the modifications put in place to protect the femoral arteries from most spells. Medical magic is not my specialty and, chances are if I'm sustaining hits I won't have time to apply self treatment, anyhow. Because I work alone an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.

I have no backup, no partner, and no cavalry will ever come to my aid.

I pulled them on.

From the second drawer I pulled out a poly-material long sleeved shirt. The body was made of simple muggle materials; the sleeves were a protective hybrid of dragon heart string and acromantula silk. An old schoolmate of mine, Lavender Brown, worked for Madam Malkin as a designer now. She personally crafted most of my protective gear and agreed to keep it quiet.

From the large wooden chest at the foot of my bed I pulled out one of my body armor sets, this one crafted from a chinese fireball. I put my arms through the wholes and began to lace up the center to pull the two halves of armor together in the front. Like shoelaces I pulled the leather cords taut, then knotted them at the bottom.

Satisfied that most of the standard stunning, binding, blasting, and cutting magic spells would do little harm save scorch or toss me around, I pulled a simple black cotton shirt over my head to conceal the fact that I had more than a stroll in the park in mind when I selected my outfit.

A slew of protective gear draws eyes, so I always do my best to hide it.

My wand I placed in a sheath on my left wrist where I could draw it quickly with my wand hand, the right. On the outside of my thighs I slid two battle wands home into the modified fabric, where they were concealed save for the final two inches of the handle.

I grabbed my boots off the floor and pulled them onto my feet, my right more carefully so than my left so as to be sure the blade I always keep inside of it is positioned properly to be drawn quickly in a hand to hand scuffle. A wizard should always carry a blade. I haven't had chance to use the dagger - a gift from Alastor Moody on my 17th birthday - but I feel good having it, any extra edge - or blade - could mean all the difference.

Over the back of the chair in front of my messy desk a dark, hooded cloak lay. I pulled it on and did the fastenings at the neck.

What am I forgetting? Wands? Check. Dagger? Check. Armor? Triple check.

Movement from the bed pulled my eyes away from my feet. My dark haired companion had awoken, it would seem.

"Harry?"

"Go back to sleep, Daphne. Everything's fine." I said quietly.

"Are you going out again? That's every night this week." she said softly with concern.

I nodded. "That tip you gave me has led to something bigger. Tonight there's a meeting between three minor players. I'm going to drop in and have a listen, see if I can't find out what's happening."

It hit me all at once what I was forgetting. With a muttered oath I turned to my dresser and flipped the top open on a small box. Inside an assortment of rings sat in a jumbled mess. I sifted through them, looking for the ones I'd need tonight.

I chose two. The first, a simple, non reflective black metal with no jewel - a portkey to the shrieking shack in Hogsmeade. I slipped it onto my right hand.

The second, a similar design, found a home on my left ring finger - a portkey to St. Mungos Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, should the unfortunate happen and I get my ass handed to me by a dark wizard.

"Do you really have to do this, Harry? You could just leave it all to the ministry law enforcement." Daphne suggested for the 100th time. "Why don't you just come back to bed?"

I adjusted my straps, ties, and holsters, straightened my cloak and pulled up my hood. I snuffed the candles with a wave of my wand, plunging the room into darkness again, then drew breath.

"The first time Voldemort fell, people became lazy. They didn't press on and catch all his underlings, and his supporters helped to bring him back. I can't rest until they are all put away, where they can never hurt anyone again. Where they can never aid their master or any other." I proclaimed.

"We've been over this before." I added on pointedly. "And now I really have to go."

I walked to the door of the bedroom and nearly had my hand upon the knob when her soft voice called out to me.

"He's not coming back, Harry. He's finished."

I paused for a second, not knowing what to say. I didn't believe a word of it, of course. I never bought any of it.

The circumstances of Lord Voldemort's demise were never fully revealed; the few sources the Order of the Phoenix and the DMLE could uncover said that the Dark Lord had self destructed. They claimed that, in the pursuit of even greater magical power, Lord Voldemort practiced many dangerous magical experiments on himself, pushing the limits, transforming his body and power.

And one day, they say, it all went wrong. A miscalculation, an unseen variable, an oversight; it mattered not how, everyone told me, only that Lord Voldemort was destroyed by magic gone awry, and peace had come at last.

I didn't buy it, not for a second. I don't believe that Dumbledore believed it either, and the old man's advice had been to always be on my guard and to never forget.

And then he died, peacefully in his sleep, a little after my 17th birthday.

The reported accidental self-destruction of Lord Voldemort had spurred a nationwide celebration, much like when I "stopped" him when I was only a year old.

Similarly, a month later, the death of Albus Dumbledore sent the wizarding community into a period of mourning. In the hubbub of a nation trying to move onward from the end of an era, many of the Dark Lord's most dangerous supporters slipped away.

But I won't let them.

My name is Harry Potter, I'm 18 years old, and I hunt the shadows.

"He's finished when I say he's finished." I proclaimed. "When all who wear his mark are gone." I said into the darkness.

And then I stepped out into the night. It was time to hunt.


End file.
